


The Warlock's Gambit

by Quillfiend



Series: The Sin Bin [5]
Category: League of Legends
Genre: Multi, NSFW, Sex Slavery, Slavery, Smut, Yordle/Human, Yordle/Vastaya, f/m - Freeform, m/m - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-13
Updated: 2019-04-13
Packaged: 2020-01-12 13:19:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18447374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quillfiend/pseuds/Quillfiend
Summary: Veigar recalls his time spent in the Immortal Bastion as the prisoner of a cruel tyrant. From this hate comes a dire need: to relive what was at the hands of anybody as despicable as his former master.





	The Warlock's Gambit

**Author's Note:**

> Self-indulgent smut fic. The non-con is mostly referenced through memories and not in the actual story, but still including the warning.

_The room was poorly lit, a single dimming brazier cracking in the middle of it; it cast the King's face in an ominous shadow, painting his features as those of the cruel beast he was._

„ _I heard you have been clawing my name into the walls of your cell,“ he said, and the wizard dared not look up again, but somehow he knew that the King was smiling. It made him feel even smaller than he was, a groveling mound of pathetic nothingness at the monarch's feet._

„ _What a grand tribute to something you hate,“ the King's voice kept on resonating within the cold hall, „you called me a fiend, once - but you're as mad as I am.“_

_He propped the wizard's chin up with his massive steel boot, and their eyes met in a short duel of stares. The King emerged victorious after mere seconds; his subject had neither the strength nor the will to withstand his oppressive glare for any longer. There was shame in the wizard's submission, but he was too weak to do anything but give in, and when his body responded in spite of his mind's protests, he growled and whimpered in a desperate attempt to change something, anything. The gods were deaf to his pleas however, and the only hand that reached out towards him was the King's when the dark sovereign lifted his plaything up onto his knees._

„ _Like all the others, you grow addicted to this new liberty,“ the brutish man spoke words the wizard knew but never wanted to hear, „the lack of responsibility I bless you with. You love not having to think, to care... Even at the cost of your body and soul.“_

_His metallic claws traced through the black fur covering the wizard's chest; it was smooth and silky now, washed clean of all blood and grime it was usually caked in. Every squeeze of the King's gauntlet was suffocating, every pull a humiliation, and the wizard canted his head to choke a moan. No, he would not beg. Not yet..._

 

„The starting price is ten thousand gold.“

„Ten thousand?! Have you lost your mind?“

The slaver forced his thumb into the corner of Veigar's mouth. The warlock bit him, fully expecting the reaction that came afterwards; a tug of the chain around his neck and violent handling. It cost him all his power to stay quiet and not give in to the feeling of submission, of being owned, of being little more than an item to be sold and bought. It was overwhelming, like a drug he couldn't get enough of.

„Look at those fangs - brilliant and razor sharp. He can't be very old.“

„And you don't get to buy a yordle every moon...“

The caravanserai outside was bustling with life, but the opulent room Veigar found himself in hummed only with whispers and the clinking of jewelry the worst of Shurima's lawless decked themselves in. No, a yordle was not regular goods to be bartered about in Marrowmark; Veigar was something special, something unique, a _luxury._ He loved the attention he received for it, and everything else that came with it.

„A handsome little thing,“ the shrouded man behind Veigar kept the warlock's chin lifted up; Veigar nuzzled against his gloved hand, a low growl escaping him after the slaver spread his furry legs and forced him to arch his back by pulling the chains binding him.

„Male, obviously...“

„Fifteen thousand.“

The warlock didn't care to look at the first buyer. His amber eyes were turned to the painted clay ceiling, his mind stuck rewinding old memories of his time spent in the Immortal Bastion. The abuse, the pain, the humiliation; things he despised first and needed later, so much that he was willing to pose as somebody else and sell himself into slavery just to experience a splinter of what he did back then. The King was dead... Long live the King.

„Twenty. Twenty thousand gold on hand, no jewels or haggling.“

„Thirty thousand.“

„Ah, you may claim Ascended heritage - but even you weren't born into such great fortune...“

Veigar closed his eyes and bared his fangs in a satisfied grin. His seller let go of him for the moment, and so he hunched his back and dug his claws into the pedestal beneath him, his hands between his legs; he feigned shyness, coyness, to look fragile and helpless. Staring into the room, his eyes met with those of a large feline vastayan dressed in expensive silks and cashmere. The man must've been one of the Kiilash tribe; his gaze was that of a hungry hunter's, affirming his bloodline and origin, and Veigar felt his blood rising at the thought of being prey. Very small, powerless prey.

„True,“ the hunter growled, folding his arms over his wide, spotted chest, „but I've a sister that scours the dune galleons for treasure - as you well know, Mara is _very_ wealthy.“

„But Mara isn't here.“

„Her gold is. It came with me.“

The slaver behind Veigar huffed a satisfied chuckle. „Thirty thousand, then. Will anybody offer more?“

The room fell silent, and Veigar counted how many of Doran's treasures he could buy with that money. Possibly all of them. But tonight he was not after power, no - he was after being overpowered.

„Sold for thirty thousand gold to Vigo Ahab'ishi. May he serve you well.“

The large vastaya stepped forward, and Veigar drew in a sharp breath when the man grabbed his chin without much care or tenderness; he was forced to look up again, gagging from the rough handling and the tight grasp the vastaya had on his throat.

„What's your name?“ the hunter asked, and Veigar did not answer, not even after the spotted lion buried one of his large claws into his lower lip.

„He doesn't speak much. Name him whatever you wish.“

„I'll leave that to my sister. Give me the chains - our servants will bring you the gold.“

Chains pulled once again. Full breaths - no choking, not now. Glinting gold, a chilling night, the endless dunes. Lost to the world - nothing more but a miserable, nameless slave. Property. Pathetic.

A plan set in motion. A fantasy fulfilled.

 

„ _I heard you were something special now.“_

_The wizard sat curled up in an armchair too big for his little self, feeling the hem of his velvet robes over and over. Somehow, his cell was nothing like the previous one and yet the very same; it was still his prison, his solitary torment, a curse of agonizing loneliness._

_But not now. Now, there were voices._

_Years spent at her mercy made him fear the warden, the woman with the face he never truly dared to look into. Even now that he had the King's favor his gaze remained glued to the ground, and when the tyrant pressed him to the armchair and the shaft of her whip between his legs, he didn't make a single sound._

„ _Did you miss me?“_

_He didn't answer, and the first crack of the warden's lash hit him like lightning. She struck where it hurt most and made him thank her for it, lick her fingers as the blessed deliverers of the punishment he deserved. He asked no questions, put up no resistance; he would rather be beaten and broken rather than sit alone in the dark._

_The hits didn't stop coming, but the wizard made no effort to bring his knees together. He cried and shivered in pain and pleasure, and when the warden told him to beg for more after each strike, he obeyed with ardor that made his voice into whimpering moans. More. More. More..._

 

The Zoantha Cascades were treacherous land, not often treaded by mortal feet. Only the very brave or the very foolish ventured deep into the shifting sands, and Vigo and Mara Ahab'ishi capitalized on this; their home stood at the peak of the rockfalls, a complex of walled clay houses and hanging gardens that trailed above the deadly ravines. Traditionally, the Kiilash were tribal hunters, but it seemed that the Ahab'ishi traded their bloodline's legacy for wealth and luxury; they still _were_ hunters, as much was obvious from Vigo's physique, but their pursuits were driven by gold, not blood. The scars that ran through their spotted white fur were carved into them by treasure hunters and tomb guardians, not tusks and claws of ferocious animals.

As he soon learned, Veigar was not their only thrall. Whilst slavery had been abolished by Shurima's last emperor long ago, nobody had the will or manpower to guard every godslost corner of the great desert, and so the practice was still alive and well for anybody with too much money and too little morals.

The warlock was given the same set of short-sleeved dark clothes as every other servant of the Ahab'ishi and a leather collar with a single ring on it. The other slaves and concubines wore a single fang on theirs, but none of them cared to explain its origin or purpose and Veigar did not care to ask. He didn't care for anything but his new master, and when Vigo called him to serve his bloody dinner, the yordle was happy to oblige, even with his feet hurting from walking around without anything protecting them. The Ahab'ishi believed that shoes and covers made others soft and weak...

And they enjoyed watching their servants suffer a little.

„I've only known two kinds of men to be silent all the time,“ the vastayan man spoke as he lounged in the little dining room cushioned with expensive carpets and tapestries, his eyes darting between Veigar and his sumptuous feast. The warlock did his best to maintain a perfect posture and stay back unless Vigo called for something.

„The wise and the afraid. Which are you, little thing?“

„The latter,“ Veigar mumbled, clenching the wine carafe in his hands, „though I suppose I've seen enough to be called the former by some.“

„If you truly were wise, you'd not end up being sold at a slavers' market,“ the vastaya stifled a chuckle and took a gulp from his goblet. Veigar looked over the pillows the man was sat on; they littered the room and Vigo did not care if they got dirty during his dinner. After all, he was not the one to clean them, and he seemed to enjoy his own bloodied image cast in the large mirror across the room. He had a king's ego.

„Why ask, then? You knew the answer.“

„Don't be cheeky, scamp. You forget your place.“

Veigar smiled, his ears flicking. „I'll be out of here by tomorrow.“

The vastaya laughed. „That's a bold claim.“

„It would be bold if I was dealing with _real_ Kiilash vastayas.“

Vigo squinted, and Veigar could tell that he struck a nerve. The vastaya beckoned him closer, and when Veigar obeyed, the large cat-man yanked the wine flask out of his hands and forced him onto his lap.

„You yordles are pathetic,“ Vigo hissed between his teeth as he once again turned Veigar's chin and examined his body, „small. Weak. Annoying. You always think yourselves better than everybody else.“

„Because we are,“ Veigar laughed, „time has proven it true over and over.“

„Prove it to me,“ Vigo smiled, his claws running up to the back of Veigar's neck and squeezing it, „challenge my strength.“

The warlock opened his mouth to argue, and then closed it again. Now the vastaya was laughing, his grasp tightening. „I thought as much. I think I should teach you a lesson or two before my sister returns.“

„I'm a blessed spirit,“ fury and fear flashed in Veigar's eyes, „your ancestors—the spirit world will forsake you if you do me harm.“

„Ah, little thing,“ Vigo pushed his dinner out of the way with his furry foot, „if I cared for my ancestors or the spirit world, I wouldn't be here. Try again.“

Veigar's weight was nothing to the white lion; it cost him almost no effort to press his face into the pillows before him, no matter how much the warlock protested. And Veigar protested _a lot;_ he didn't want just a warning, he wanted to be entirely and utterly overpowered, shattered and dominated - like he used to be by the King. He couldn't hold his excitement when Vigo twisted his arms behind his back and pressed his weight down on him, making him feel just how much smaller he was compared to the mighty vastaya.

„You'll regret this,“ the warlock uttered, „sooner or later, you will.“

„Oh, yes,“ Vigo purred, „my sister is always unhappy when I'm a little too rough with her toys. But you won't tell her, will you?“

Veigar hissed and bared his fangs, but the vastaya had no intention of continuing their argument. He pulled the warlock's head back by his ears, made him look in the mirror across the room; he let that image burn into his mind before pulling him back into his lap. Still facing the looking glass, Veigar felt a familiar hardness beneath him; the Vastaya didn't shy away from groping him now, through and under his clothes.

„This is what I never understood about my tribe,“ Vigo growled into the warlock's ear, „they look down on hunting prey that is smaller than one's self, but I find it so very fun.“

„I doubt you could hunt anything bigger, anyway,“ Veigar sneered; it earned him a painful bite. He yelped when the vastaya's sharp teeth dug into his neck, but he couldn't resist tilting his head to the side to give him more space.

„You posture a lot,“ Vigo noted, one of his clawed hands wandering down to the warlock's groin and into his pants, „but your body agrees with me.“

„It's a—natural reaction,“ Veigar took a deep breath, bending his knees and squirming in the lion-man's grasp, „that's all—„

Vigo gave him a painful squeeze; the yordle bit into his lip to avoid whimpering again. The thin fabric of his clothes was no match for the vastaya's claws, and Veigar soon found his lower half as exposed as it was during his auction. He allowed himself a look into the far mirror; the sight forced a content sigh out of him, one that pleased Vigo greatly. He enjoyed teasing his new plaything, but he did not have the patience for long games, and his luxurious silks were soon cast aside so that he could prepare for thoroughly enjoying the little warlock in his lap.

„Do you like pain, little thing?“ the vastaya asked, his voice little more than a whisper; Veigar had no biting words for him this time, only a questioning look, one full of worry and anticipation.

The vastaya only needed one hand to navigate the warlock's groin; the other wandered back to Veigar's throat, to hold him in place as he was, so that Vigo could see his expression changing from haughty to distressed as he forced the tip of his cock into him without any preparation whatsoever.

„Watch it,“ the lion-man said as he made the whimpering warlock look into the mirror again, „after we're done, you'll beg me to rape you again, and again, until you're nothing but a slobbering pile of fur.“

„I doubt—that,“ Veigar huffed, and his insolence was immediately answered by the vastaya shoving the rest of his cock inside the little warlock. A an anxious, high-pitched moan crawled its way out of the yordle's throat; he tried to wriggle out of the vastaya's grasp, but he was no match for the hunter's strength. And the thrusts began, and Veigar could only watch himself being used and abused in the looking glass, thrashed and chewed like a toy. And it was only for so long that he could pretend to be defiant and impertinent before turning into what Vigo wanted him to become - a miserable, slobbering pile of fur.

„See,“ the vastaya stopped fucking into him for a brief second and ran one of his arms beneath Veigar's knee, lifting his leg higher and pointing at the mirror. „That didn't take very long...“

„I'll—find a way to take revenge,“ Veigar found himself whimpering the same words he once said to the King, „one day—„

Vigo buried his cock deeper in the little creature, hilting himself within; Veigar arched his back as much as the vastaya's grasp allowed him to, letting out another groan before giving in to his tense body's excitement. It was hard, so hard to try and stay cool while being captured, sold, dragged through the sands; weeks of edging finally culminated in a long-suppressed climax, and Vigo made sure the little warlock saw every second of his own, humiliating orgasm. He panted and huffed and grunted and when he was done writhing in the vastaya's claws, he no longer had any will to pretend resistance, gall, pride.

„We're not done yet,“ Vigo growled a reminder into Veigar's quivering ear, pushing his tight tunic up. Veigar drew his shaking hand to his furry stomach, now sticky with his own cum.

„Beg me to continue.“

The vastaya swung his hips again, and Veigar sobbed a pained, submissive sniffle. But he would not beg.

Not yet.

 


End file.
